


once i was here, once i was somebody's friend

by civilorange



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21557320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilorange/pseuds/civilorange
Summary: whole forevers pass as you sit in the quiet place inside yourself. deep within the recesses of your mind you linger with a palpable fear of what exactly you’re capable of.or // yasha could see everything her body did over those months.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	once i was here, once i was somebody's friend

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this quick, don't know where it came from. i can't even with thursday's episode, and now we have to wait two whole weeks! no editing, or beta.

Whole forevers pass as you sit in the quiet place inside yourself.

Deep within the recesses of your mind you linger with a palpable fear of what exactly you’re capable of. You watch hands that have always been yours raise the rusted edge of Skingorger and plunge it into the soft stomach of a weathered monk in blue—his eyes bulge, and his mouth parts in a harrowing howl.

Bodies do the strangest thing as they die—they shake and tremble, thrumming around the edge of your blade as their muscles contract and press harder on the untended metal. And then sometime goes far away, and they slacken.

You’ve always _known_ this, but watching it now as you are—a guest (_a ghost_) in your own body—you really see how the color crawls away in his eyes. You see the _exact_ moment he dies.

“Oh, wonderful, Orphanmaker,” Obann drawls, his oily presence sliding through your mind, inking through the edges and pushing you further and further away from the view of what your body is doing. “You’ve made me such a lovely playground to play in.”

Tearing your blade free, the blood spurts and he slumps—his blood so red against the pale floor, the sound of his body collapsing echoing through the halls.

Before that night in the cavern—before Obann, before the Laughing Hand, just _before_—there had always been the faintest roll of thunder in your ears, just for you. Reminding you that no matter what might seem to be, you’ve never really been alone.

But now there’s only silence.

Cold and heavy.

You strain, trying to rush forward through the dark to throw yourself back into your body—to control those red soaked hands of yours. They’ve been red for weeks now, Obann doesn’t care how it makes your heart ache to see the red grow brown and stiff on the joints of your fingers.

How you watch it flake off in the night, the tips of your fingers rubbing together to turn it into the finest of dust. Absent, considering.

You keep a tally in your mind—_one, two, three_—of how many bodies you leave in your wake—_ten, eleven, twelve_—but after a while you stop. You stop trying to remember what your body does in your absence, what your horrible hands do with no hesitation as Obann whispers bitter little words into the shell of your ear.

“Soon, Orphanmaker,” he says often, late into the night, the rattling wheeze of the Laughing Hand growing slow and sluggish as the hours pass in almost silence—the softest chuckle drifting from what must be the litany of mouths carved into his enormous bulk.

.

Some nights, long after the sun has fallen, you’re given a gift.

It isn’t every night, it isn’t even one night in a handful, but often enough—there’s a voice. A twinkling voice that makes you feel lighter, makes you feel less like the monster you _know_ you are—and probably have always been.

“_Heey Yasha, it’s me—Jester._”

Always soft, always like she’s trying not to wake someone. You wonder where she is in the world—the Empire? The Dynasty? Somewhere totally new?

You can’t close your eyes where you are so deep down inside, but you can imagine her—bright eyes, infectious smile, a warmth to her that had nothing to do with heat. A warmth that bleeds across miles—realms for all you know—and touches the cold edges of you. “_Just—wanted to let you know what we’ve been doing. We made a friend—she’s an aasimar! Do you know—…”_

You want to respond, you know logically you can—but you’re unable to. Your fists clench, and your mouth parts—you can _feel it_, but nothing comes out. You sit in silence.

Always silence.

.

Except when there isn’t.

.

“_Heey, Yasha. Did you know Fjord’s accent isn’t even **real**? He actually sounds **pre-tty** sophis-i-ti-cated. He told Uk’otoa—(Uk’otoa)—to go fuck off and threw—…”_

.

“_We—lost Nott today, she **died** and this might not even reach you. And you’re lost too, and I don’t even know what we’re **doing**—…”_

_That_ had made something inside you crumble, something otherwise untouched—a piece of you that Obann couldn’t scratch away with dirty nails and oily words.

Nott _died_? Jester had sounded sad, had sounded despondent, but—she didn’t sound devastated. You think of how she had screamed your name as those doors closed, how no one had ever sounded so…broken…about you.

You’re the one left behind—or, you were, before you started leaving first.

No, she didn’t sound devastated.

So you hope.

.

“_Soooo_, _thought about that message and was like Oh My God, Yasha probably thinks Nott’s dead, and no, no, no, we got her back. She_—…”

You’ll never know what _she_ was going to do, say, or be, but you’re relieved. As relieved as you can be as your body burns with anger and your sword gouges through another hapless body. _Fodder_, Obann had laughingly called them. People who had no hope of standing against you, no hope of holding up the weight of your downward swing—you’re so very good at killing, even before Obann you’d known this, but there’s a disconcerting freedom now.

As if the shackles that cage you now are so very different from the self-imposed ones you’ve always chosen to bind yourself with.

You’ve always been a tamed monster, but now—now you’re on the loose.

Tethered only with the ill-intention of a creature burning red with hellish eyes.

.

“_Heey, it’s me—again. Just—checking in. I—saw today. You…probably feel pretty bad, and I want you to know I know it isn’t—…”_

There’s a crackle in your ears for the first time in so long, the electricity skittering over your chin and down the back of your neck eases the burn of Obann’s command. The voice—Jester’s voice—eases you even more. The Stormlord might be your salvation, but Jester—Jester’s something more tangible. On your best nights you think of her as family, the entire Nein, but on your worst nights you consider them your punishment.

Those who you’ll always disappoint.

But tonight, with Obann’s burn in your blood, and the Stormlord’s lightening crawling across your skin, you need her. You need this simple connection of someone who cares—this reminder that you are _you_, even if your body isn’t.

“_—oh, sorry I got cut off. It isn’t **you**, and we’re going to get you back, I promise. Promise, promise. Keep fighting, Yasha. You’re so—…_”

Because Jester thinks _Yasha_, and that is you.

It will always be you.

.

As the clouds whisper away and the sky is clear, you find the most beautiful flower. It’s gold, and purple, and red—swirling together, you’ve never seen one like it before. Your chin against the new breastplate Obann has fostered onto you—wrist thick tusks curling over shoulders, cracked leather and metal sticking to the blood and sweat on your skin.

You want to hold it, this beautiful untouched piece of nature—you want to touch something without ruining it for the first time in months.

You watch absently as your hand reaches out and graces just a fingertip against a petal that reminds you so very much of Mollymauk.

Somehow, you _know_ that you can force your fingers to pluck it free, you _know_ that Obann doesn’t see any worth in this silly little weed. You _know_. So you swim closer to that slanted reality that is just beyond you at every moment, for you don’t sleep when your body does, for you _aren’t_ your body—you just exist in darkness.

You coax, and encourage, and plead, and after much hesitation, your body plucks it free from the ground—so simple, but it’s something _you_ want.

It’s brilliant as you spin it between your fingers, the colors blurring into a kaleidoscope. You smile, your body does too, and with a smooth effort that gives you more hope than you should have—especially months into this—you tuck it away into your breastplate before Obann can see.

Before you’re forced to be just that much less you.

.

Obann talks. A lot.

The words drift and spin in the hollow emptiness around you, and you think he simply must like the sound of his own voice.

“Soon, Orphanmaker,” he says it so often, plodding along with a whip of the tail and a twitch of his wings. _Soon_ to what, you don’t know. To the Angel of Irons, to a menagerie of death dealers, to some inevitable bloody end.

“She’ll love you,” his voice is soft, and you don’t think it should be. It sound be razor blades and warning klaxons, it should be bright red and viciously wrong. “You’re perfectly _broken_. Your chains self-imposed and your hunger ageless.”

He’s whispering the word _lovely_ while reaching out to cup your cheek, but there’s a splash of electricity over the curve of your jaw and into the growing black of your hair.

The darkness from where you’ve existed these months grows cold and darker somehow—and you feel it, you feel the bristling touch of that _otherness_ inside that links you to something otherworldly.

Your wings snap open, swallowing the light and Obann’s eyes shrink, pupils going to pinpricks, his hand halting.

“You’re _mine_, Orphanmaker,” you want to scream that you _not_ that person anymore, whoever they were, whoever you are right now. You’re _Yasha_. You’re a member of the Mighty Nein, you’re _good_.

But your wings are black and broken things, skeletal and cold.

His fingers shiver, and his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t come any closer, and your body might not see him as an enemy, but your soul does. _You_ do.

He’s backing away, glaring, “soon.”

.

“_Heeey Yasha, it’s me—Jester. Sorry it’s been a while, we were inside the Happy Fun Ball, and you wouldn’t **believe** what we found in_—…”

.

Sometimes you don’t even notice the days without messages, without blood.

The only two things that catch your attention anymore.

“_We’re coming, Yasha. I promise. There’s so much super important stuff I want to tell you. Soon._”

You can only smile, and it feels so odd when you can tell that your numb cheeks pull upward into one as well. You and your body, smiling, together.

She didn’t use all the words.

.

_Soon_ turns out to be a chantry in Rexxentrum.

You scream at every step your body takes, you howl as your hands—still flaking rust colored blood—pulls Skingorger free from your back sheath. You’re chanting _no, no, no, no_ but your lips won’t move. Your knuckles go white under the rust and there’s a burning anger welling up beneath your skin—you burn with it, you expel harrowing growls as your carve through the air, hacking and swiping, and intent on ruining these people you call _family_.

It gets worse, though, so much worse.

Nott’s face goes blank, and those bright eyes grow far away and you’re horrified for her—you’re worried, no, you’re _terrified_. You don’t want this for Nott, you don’t want her to ruin anything she might regret, and you don’t want her beautifully green hands to grow dark with blood.

Some part of you that’s still broken—and always will be—want to knock her unconscious before she can hurt herself in ways that have nothing to do with open wounds and spilled blood.

But your body turns, and the Skin-Gorger drags a sinister scratch across the floor, sparks dancing and trilling in the cacophony of chaos around you. Everything blurs and you wish that you could close your eyes and pretend that you aren’t going to carve your way through your friends.

Beauregard is beautiful in her movements, brilliant as she pushes Obann out of her mind, wonderful as she puts herself in front of her friends—her family—and the enemy. You. There’s blood on her tan skin, and bruises around her eyes, and you wish you could simply fall on your blade. Tumble forward and just _end this_.

But you’re not in control, and you do so much worse.

There’s a part of you that doesn’t wonder at how easily you slice through her, at how her body arches and spins and falls to the ground. How her blood isn’t even remarkable against all the rust still staining you—it with grow brown and turn to dust with age like every other ounce of life-force spilled on you.

Her blistering blue eyes close and her body goes slack and you scream—_move, move, **go**_—but your body rights itself and rotates the edge of the glaive so that you might be able to drive it down and _into_ the center of her chest and ruin.

Red spurts and spills, and you can’t stop the shudder of your frame under the control.

You’re shaking as you turn, ripping the tip free, tears sliding through the rust staining your cheeks—a plea in your graveyard eyes. Asking, _pleading_, for someone to put you down.

You need to die before you kill anyone else.

.

After the doors close, and after the Nein gasps for what little breath they can be afforded, you lean against the wall. Skingorger in hand, but you wished you could still feel Magician’s Judge—you haven’t felt it in ages, the subtle touch of magic thrumming against your palms. The promise of a better tomorrow, of the _truth_ being unveiled.

You watch them, each and every one of them—except Nott, who you will move heaven and earth to retrieve—and you sink down to your knees. You bow into yourself physically because you cannot do it mentally alone anymore—you are Yasha, body and soul, and you’ve missed being you.

.

“Jester,” you say, softer than soft, because you can’t help the flinch at the guarded look Fjord gives you, his fingers curling like he might wish to pull his new blade from the ether. But Jester—

—sweet, stronger than them all Jester—who could still _smile_ after everything. Who still looks at you like someone she loves, despite every reason you’ve given her to the contrary. She hops up and over to you, clasping your hands in hers and pressing her horns against your collarbones like Mollymauk used to. The blunt scrape is comforting, the weight of her more-so.

“I missed you,” she says into your chest, and you can feel the wet drip of her tears soaking into your rust flaking clothing. “I missed you so much.”

You don’t move at first, don’t dare move, but her relief in infectious—like her laughter, and her smile—and you can only last so long before you’re clutching her to you. She’s talking, but you can’t hear her, and you don’t think the actual words really matter. No, they’re pretty unimportant—it’s the scratch of her nails into the fabric of your cloak, and the shake of her shoulders as she cries.

“Thank you,” you say, squeezing your graveyard eyes closed for a moment, trying ot push away all the bad so that you can focus on Jester’s good.

“I didn’t do anything, it was Caduceus.” Extending her to arm’s length, you smile—an awkwardly unsure expression, you know—and shake your head, because she doesn’t _know_.

“Not for,” she stumble, grimacing. “Not for—for _that_. For—for thinking of me. For sending all those messages. I—…” You want to be elegant and charming, you want to say exactly what you feel, and want her to understand that she’s most of the reason there was still someone for Caduceus to save. That she reached you when the Stormlord couldn’t—that for a few months she was stronger than any deity.

You reach into the hard edge of your breastplate, pulling free the flattened flower that had reminded you so much of Mollymauk. It’s discolored after so many days hidden away, but it’s still beautiful. Reaching out you tuck it behind her ear, and smile.

“—…I heard you.”

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to follow me over on tumblr @ [civilorange](https://civilorange.tumblr.com/)


End file.
